


A Posteriori

by annalore



Series: Roads Untraveled [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-11-22
Updated: 2004-11-22
Packaged: 2019-07-14 08:30:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16036745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annalore/pseuds/annalore
Summary: In which the full history of the moste contemptuous relationship between Severus Snape and Sirius Black is made knowne for review and appreciation of the general public.





	A Posteriori

He knows. In his heart, he knows, and it galls him to admit it. He has never amounted to much. He has never achieved the greatness he desired. All he has is the power he hoards like a few meager crumbs against starvation.

His ambition is transparent. Oh, everyone knows Professor Snape's not-so-secret desire for the Defense Against the Dark Arts position. And why shouldn't it be his? He knows more about the dark arts than anyone in the school. Besides Dumbledore, that is. He smirks as he thinks the name, as any head of Slytherin house should. But he remembers why he will always owe the man his respect.

The blood of the pure runs thin and cold in his veins. He doesn't suffer from a lack of power, like some. Nor does he lack in talent -- for brews and potions. He can concoct formulas most would not dream of. But when he leaves the dank and rheumy air of his dungeons, he is aware of a lack. When he was at school, it would cut deeply to see the other students sitting outside. Friends talking, couples laughing. And him, alone but for his ambition and bitterness. It made bile rise in his throat to see Potter -- James Potter, so like the son he left behind -- show off for the girls. To see Lupin, introspective and cool to those not his friends. Peter Pettigrew, fawning over the friends he didn’t deserve. And Black.

But Black is dead now, he reminds himself. Dead not like Potter, of a hero's death, but dead in a dungeon, alone. He fears that such a death is meant for him, an ultimate insult to a man whose life has meant nothing. But even the truth tells lies. It does not speak of the sacrifices he has made, even at the cost of his own soul. It only speaks of the mistakes he would rather leave covered up. Black is regarded as a hero, when he was no more than a fool. In his most private thoughts, Severus is not so harsh. He _is_ wont to think ill of the dead — his hatred for Potter still burns deep — but he knows what it is to be trapped. The remnants of claustrophobia still cling.

He does not deny he has made his own choices. No Imperius for him, no mind control. He'd thought, in his youth, that there was only power and those that wielded it. He now knows that evil exists and he still bears the scars. Sirius chose the harder path. The better path. And Sirius is dead.

The dark arts call to him more strongly than ever now. He is drawn to serve, but he resists with all his will. The power draws him, whispers that he could be free, if only he were to use it. But he knows it would only make him a cheap imitation of the Dark Lord. And he knows that he would never be free.

So he teaches his classes and is quietly hated by even the students he favors, more obviously by the ones he does not. Oh, how they loathe his lessons, loathe mixing and cutting and measuring. But why should they like it, this precise art that anyone can master with enough patience? They all lust after power when they come to Hogwarts, even the most innocent among them. Few of them ever realize the power that does lie in potion making. The power to elicit truth or create lies. The power to control a life — or to end one.

The ingredients sit in the back of his cabinet and he never thinks of them. Not after spending the evening making dreadfully polite conversation with his fellow teachers. Not even after one of his infrequent visits to his parents’ house. No, he has only made the potion one time. His finest hour, sitting over a caldron full of oblivion, his eyes burning and his cheeks stained with tears. His finest hour — and almost his last.

He’d thought it would be over when he finished school, but he’d only given up his pantheon of tormentors to worship another false god. It burns, having to retreat back into his old life, if only to help the cause he’s made his own. In the dungeon, where the cold always lingers, it is difficult to imagine warmth. It’s difficult, increasingly more difficult, to remember what it’s all for.

It isn’t the last argument that is most vivid. Not the last insult or the last hate filled look. Not the first argument, either. Not the first sting of humiliation or the first flash of embarrassment. It is the one that makes it hardest to hate that is the most vivid.

If they hadn’t hated each other, they would have been strangers. Of course, Snape had known of the Black family, even in his school days. Everyone had expected Sirius to be a Slytherin. It had not happened that way, and Severus had made an enemy before classes had even started.

He thinks of his first term rarely. It is not pleasant to be reminded how easily the fragile hopes of a young boy can be crushed. He only likes to think of how he used his anger to excel. How the hatred of his peers drove him to the top of his classes. He doesn’t think about how his marks rarely pleased his parents. How over and over, he was asked the dreaded question: why couldn’t he be more like the Black boy. Sirius Black, who was always so respectful of his elders — in public.

Perhaps Dumbledore thought it ironic. Snape, like most people, cannot tell what the headmaster truly thinks. But perhaps Dumbledore thought it ironic that his two black sheep were so alike. Only in rare moments of honesty does Snape recognize the similarities. Only in moments of extreme self examination does he remember one winter’s night at Hogwarts.

He’d been in an empty classroom, away from the prying eyes of his housemates, practicing spells out of a book from the restricted section of the library. Luckily, some professors were always willing to indulge good students when they requested permission to do a little “extra reading.”

He was just mastering a particularly difficult curse when Black had come storming in, eyes blazing with anger. Oh, yes, Sirius Black had always been a sight to see — haughty and arrogant at the best of times, insufferably superior when he felt like it, and terrifying when he was in a mood. But Snape had never seen him display quite the emotion that he had that night. There was grief in his fury, a letter clutched in his hand. He’d frozen when he noticed Severus. Then his expression had contorted with cruelty. He’d always taken a particular joy in tormenting Snape, but this time it was clear he’d go for blood. Snape, high on the power of the magic he’d been using, had let anger fill him. He was determined not to take it that time.

The standard insults had been exchanged, but with more deliberation, more purpose than usual. This time they hurled only words at each other, not hexes. Looking back, Snape doesn’t remember how his parents got brought into it. He had never mentioned them. It would’ve been a grave sin in a world where every bit of knowledge could be used as a weapon. Later, he learned that his situation was more widely known than he’d imagined. Then, he’d absorbed the sting and had fought back — the Blacks, and by extension their problems, were famous in the wizarding world. Perhaps Black had finally used the things he’d obviously known for a while because of the letter he’d just received. Perhaps Snape had responded in kind because he was, once again, forced to spend the Christmas holidays at school. But then the tension and hatred erupted, letting out information and grievances neither had ever meant to express, and certainly not to the other. And then… and then.

Perhaps it _is_ ironic. The irony is most deep when Snape thinks of the events of sixteen years ago. He was the Death Eater — a painful truth he confronts daily — and Black the loyalist. Black, the protector of honor and freedom and righteousness. It suited his image, as Snape’s activities had suited his. Skulking in the dark, murdering, torturing. By the time the Dark Lord was at his full power, Snape had used two of the Unforgivable Curses. But doubts were already beginning to form in his mind, and he was using Occlumency to keep Voldemort from seeing his growing hatred and contempt. It was then, as his self loathing was at its peak and he was starting to wonder if he could get out alive, that it had happened.

The memory of that night in Knockturn Alley is a memory he’s always been particularly careful to guard. Only Dumbledore himself would be powerful enough to access it without his knowledge or permission and Dumbledore wouldn’t dream of prying into the mind of another. Snape knows this implicitly, but he also knows that the headmaster has other ways of gaining information. He has always wondered, has forever been on the brink of asking, whether Dumbledore is aware of all that went on between him and Black. But the question has always stuck in his throat, his shame overwhelming the curiosity. He has never believed that sharing experiences somehow gives them form and meaning, but he cannot explain the emptiness, the constant longing to tell and explain.

He’d been purchasing some rare ingredients he had needed for a potion. He had purposely dawdled, deciding to spend the night when it became late, for his journey was long and Apparition impossible. The sole inn in Knockturn Alley was lacking in quality, but he doubted he would have been welcome at the Leaky Cauldron. The room had been small and dingy, feebly lit by a lantern and a few candles. He’d lain on the bed, fully dressed in his robes, shoes still on, staring at the ceiling. He hadn’t seen the cracks or the chips in the paint. All he’d seen was the agony on a man’s face as his body convulsed under the Cruciatus curse. He’d experienced a shadow of the pleasure he’d felt then and had nearly been sick — again. And then he’d heard the knock on the door.

He’d tortured people before and he’s done it since, without sympathy and without remorse. He now tries to avoid it as much as possible because he lives in fear of enjoying the process. Taking pleasure in another’s pain is a vast step up from taking pleasure in their discomfort. He can’t explain the difference any more than he can describe or point out the line he walks, between evil and his own ambitions.

The thought that he wouldn’t have turned double agent if that night had turned out differently haunts him. If he would even have had the courage to defect at all. Would he have continued to serve, turning his soul blacker with every day? He likes to think that he’s a better man than that. That he would have done the right thing no matter what. But it did not come down to that, and even then he’d nearly ended it all. He’d been naïve enough to think that imbibing death would be the hardest thing he’d have to do. In time, he realized it would have been both easy and cowardly. Getting Voldemort’s opposition to accept him had taken a lot and only Dumbledore had trusted him in the end. He’d worked to earn that trust. Only for him would he have gone back to what he’d just escaped. Only for him would Snape have gone back yet again, fifteen years after the nightmare had ended.

He’d opened the door that night. It could have been one of his fellow Death Eaters, communicating with him through unusual means. It was not. He sometimes wonders what would have happened if he’d ignored the knock. Perhaps Black would’ve broken in anyway. He’d been drunk enough. When it plays in his mind, the scene is as real and vivid as if it were reality and his life since then no more than a dream.

_  
Black banged the door open, forcing Snape to take a step back. He could smell alcohol on the other man’s breath. He would have slammed the door back in his face, but Black was too quick and had already forced his way in._

_“I’m not in the mood for company,” Snape said deliberately, his voice devoid of the emotions that had been running through him that night. “And if I were, it would certainly not be for yours.”_

_“Still the same, eh Snivellus?” Black gave the room a distasteful survey. “You’ve come up in the world.” The note of sarcasm in his voice was clear._

_Snape suppressed a grimace as he shut the door. Any interaction was best done in private in these parts. “And you have most assuredly come down. Tell me, Black, does Potter know you’re here?”_

_Black moved father into the room and dropped himself into one of the rickety wooden chairs sitting around a small, scarred table in the corner. “Does anyone care that_ you _are?”  
_

Black’s barbs had always been particularly well placed. He’d always understood, in a way that his friends had not, what would hurt most. But Snape had learned quite well, over the years, that showing emotion was a sign of weakness and an invitation for ridicule or worse. This is a lesson he tries to impart on his own students, hoping they will learn more than he did.

He tries to stop short of cruelty, but often fails. Just as he suppresses his own faults, he has trouble accepting fault in others, even the well intentioned. Dumbledore often councils patience and understanding in a bland tone that suggests he doesn’t see what lies beneath. He sees all too well, but never lets his thoughts be known. Perhaps Snape is not well suited to being a teacher, but Hogwarts has long been his refuge as well as his home. Memories in the wizarding world don’t fade easily, and people do not readily forgive, on either side.

_  
Black, eyes bleary and dark with restrained anger, dominated the room. He sat in his chair with the casual arrogance of royalty holding court. To minimize the effect, Snape also sat._

_“It seems,” he observed, drawing the words out, “that you cared enough to seek me out.”_

_A small smirk graced his face when it became obvious he wasn’t reacting the way Black expected. Silence pervaded the room until a particularly strong gust of wind rattled the shutters. Black laughed then, low and bitter, as he pulled a flask out of his pocket. He saluted the weather in a careless gesture, then took a swig._

_“You’ve changed, Snape.” He grew sober, leaning over the table in an almost conspiratorial manner. “But maybe not that much.” Snape remained silent and Black shrugged, sitting back in his chair. The silence stretched on, and just when Snape thought Black had run out of things to say, his voice plunged through the gloom again. “They say you were there when Regulus died.”_

_Snape froze. He felt the blood leaving his face and the sickness returning. “Rumors.”_

But rumors are often based in truth. Particularly that one, although Black may not have known it. Nobody there would have talked, least of all Regulus Black, who’d had his mind destroyed before he was murdered. Not by Snape, but he knows. He knows who punished the so-called “blood traitor” – and saw what could have happened to himself.

He keeps quiet about the sins of those who went free, though he can list them off, call each sinner by name. It is best that he be seen to have no loyalty other than to himself. He does not speak of the horrors he’s seen. There would be no point. His memories only serve to implicate him in the worst of crimes. He could have told Black how his brother had screamed for mercy, how he’d cried out for their mother in the end. He could’ve described the way his eyes had gone cold, as _Avada Kedavra_ , the killing curse, had done its work.

He’d said nothing, but Black had seen. He’d seen because Snape had let his guard down. It could have been a fatal mistake in the presence of another. In the same room as Sirius Black, it was an admission of weakness.

_  
He stood by the window, trying to calm himself. The murder was still fresh, a nightmarish sport he’d watched and could have taken part in. He was lucky his resistance was overlooked, that his unwillingness to kill traitors hadn’t been noticed. The cool air steadied, but did nothing to prepare him to face his old school enemy._

_When Black finally spoke, it was from right behind him. Snape had been so lost in thought, he hadn’t noticed the movement of the other man. “I always hated Regulus. My own brother. And now he’s dead.”_

_Snape heard the rustle of cloth and knew instinctively that a wand was now pointed at him. He stayed very still, cursing the unforgivable lapses he’d made that night. “Are you going to kill me?” he asked as calmly as he could manage. “What would your precious Potter think of that?” He felt as much as heard the wand withdraw. As he turned, he removed his own wand from his robes, holding it in a defensive position. “You consider_ him _something of a brother, don’t you?”_

_Black’s eyes flashed and sparks flew from the tip of his wand. “I once warned you about bringing that up. Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear enough.”_

_“And you’re going to stop me with cheap parlor tricks?” The feeling of having power, having control, made Snape reckless. “Did he ever find out? Did he know when you were best man at his wedding? When he made you godfather to his son?”_

_For a second, he thought Black would jump on him, attempt to strangle him or snap his neck. But he just laughed again, in that chilling, half mad way that made one think he would be capable of anything.  
_

Snape knows how time in Azkaban can destroy the mind, although he’s managed to avoid the place himself. Everyone attributed the changes in Black to that. Snape, however, had always seen the strain of instability. It is perhaps easier to know and be known by those you hate than by those who you call your friends, he thinks. The lack of desire to have someone think well of you can spur telling actions, give unintended revelations. There may have been nobility in Black that he himself does not possess, but the struggle to do good was more prevalent, Snape wagers, than any but he knew. The conclusion was not always foregone.

There are many theories of the afterlife. If there is a heaven, Snape imagines Black will be reliving his school days forever — long, lazy mornings of skimming through classes, summer afternoons on the grounds with James Potter as his foil and Remus Lupin as his steadfast companion. Charming a different girl every weekend, talking her into his bed if he pleases and laughing about it with James in the evenings. A perfect paradise for a man who could never imagine life being as good as it was then.

Snape can imagine having no such luck himself. His is not the romantic tale of a misunderstood hero, wrongfully accused and long suffering. He has escaped execution and imprisonment not through his own merit, but by luck and the goodwill of others. He has learned to accept that, as he accepts that his true judgment will one day come, and there is nothing he can do to stop it. 

No, heaven doesn’t exist for him. He doesn’t even have happiness in his life to replace the hope of the future with the pleasure of the present. He has sold his soul, and he cannot buy it back. Death has made him too philosophical for his own taste. He would bury his thoughts with liquor, but he does not like losing control. He would devote himself to carnal pleasures, but he isn’t given to hedonism. Only twice… Twice he’d found himself in unusual situations with Sirius Black.

On that winter night during seventh year, Black had received a letter from James Potter. Potter, on holiday with Lily Evans and her family. Snape can see all too well how Black would have pretended not to care, pretended to be happy for his friend. But he’d seen the jealousy and the hurt in Black’s eyes, and had put two and two together well enough when he’d snatched the letter and read it. The dashing, the invincible Sirius Black, jealous of the Muggle-born girl who had his friend’s attention. Black, ever so confused about what it might mean, if he felt more than just friendship for another man.

One minute, Snape had been using his newfound knowledge to stand his ground in their fight — a truly terrible fight, each dredging up the most painful memories, the most degrading insults, they could manage to throw at each other. And then… And then Snape had found himself backed up against a desk, Sirius’s long, athletic body pressed against his, restraining him. Snape had been too stunned to struggle much. His hands, which he’d been using to try to push Black off, had clutched the material of Black’s robes when their lips had met. Snape still remembers the feel of soft cotton, of the rough embroidery of the Gryffindor crest under his fingers. The heat that had risen in his body as if a fire had been stoked too high. The angry, insistent way Black had taken over his senses and demanded more.

He will never forget being flung aside after several minutes, his equilibrium completely unbalanced. He’d watched, still and uncertain, as Black caught his breath. Black’s composure was back almost instantly. He’d sauntered over to Snape, as if he did that sort of thing every day, and had said, simply, “Keep your theories to yourself,” before leaving without a backward glance.

He hadn’t seen Black again until after the start of term. They’d been walking in opposite directions in the hall, Black with Potter and Snape alone. Black had winked and Snape had stumbled, dropping his books to the ground in an uncharacteristic display of clumsiness. As they’d passed, Potter had been laughing, no doubt at something Sirius had said. Snape’s hatred had been complete.

He doesn’t think Black told. No doubt it would have gotten around the whole school if he had, and Snape never heard even a whisper of a rumor. In school, Black had been known for his sexual exploits, and had been as popular as Snape had been reviled. If they’d ever been linked…

Perhaps that’s why their hatred had grown more bitter, their rivalry more pronounced, to the confusion of Potter and his friends. Potter, who had not been able to understand the animosity behind Black’s little prank, who had ended up saving Snape’s life from the werewolf. No, Black had never told Potter about their interlude. Snape had not expected it. He’d expected it to be ignored, as he had wanted to ignore the questions he faced about himself. Forgotten, as he’d been working on forgetting the desires that it had awakened in him. But then Black had winked at him in the hall, with Potter right there. The audacity of it had increased his confusion, had introduced a new element of longing for the blatant sexuality Sirius Black offered.

Of course, it hadn’t been an open offer. Not for him. That fact had made it easier to repress, easier to forget he’d momentarily wanted the man he hated so much. He’d forgotten, in time, that he had ever wanted anyone at all. Then, years later, they’d met again, and every untruth he’d told himself had been unraveled.

_  
Black’s eyes were also half mad as he advanced on Snape. Even when there was no space between Snape’s back and the wall, he didn’t stop. He didn’t stop until there was no space between the two of them, either._

_“It seems you just don’t listen.” His mouth was near Snape’s ear and his voice was soft — very soft, whiskey smooth and dangerous. His body had only gotten harder over the years, his muscles more defined. “But while we’re on the subject…”_

_Snape’s breath caught and he swallowed. His control was slipping away rapidly. He’d miscalculated; somewhere along the line he’d vastly miscalculated. He felt fear, not of death but of pain, a fear he did not care to analyze. “You want to talk about your feelings?” he asked with a forced sneer. “Discuss your relationship with James Potter? Your guilt over your worthless brother’s death?” As he went on, his words quickened, his voice sounding more desperate than he’d intended. “Perhaps you think he deserved what he got, for betraying his master.”_

_His breath caught again and he squeezed his eyes shut as he was pressed harder against the wall. Black’s thigh was between Snape’s legs and if he moved, just a bit… He couldn’t help it. He moaned. Not loudly, but Black heard. And he grinned._

_“You’re a worthless bastard, Snape. A traitor, a coward, and a hypocrite. I wonder why I shouldn’t kill you now.” One look at Black’s face told Snape he was seriously considering the question. “And don’t,” Sirius warned with a well placed jab of his knee, “mention James.”_

_“I’m sure it would please you greatly to kill me. You’ve been trying to for years. But you might consider your cause.” Oh, that peaked Black’s interest alright. “Alive, I’d be a valuable source of information. They might even let you be the one to torture me, if you have the stomach for it.”_

_Black raised an eyebrow, considering. Snape remembered in that moment that Black was no fool, that he’d coasted through his classes with high marks. He had an undisciplined intelligence that came without restriction, that had not been taught responsibility. “Just like you, Severus,” Black started, tilting his head and leaning in until there was only a breath between their mouths, “not to give it up willingly.”_

_As Snape’s hand tightened around his wand, he registered only vaguely the sound of his own name, alien and ugly on the other man’s tongue. He muttered a single word in response to the taunt, a spell that flung Black to the other side of the room and held him there, against the wall._

_He advanced slowly, savoring the change of positions, and stopped just an arm’s length away. “You would do well to remember who I am, Black. Very well, indeed.”_

_This time, Black was the one who wasn’t reacting as expected. He didn’t struggle, didn’t reach for his wand. His expression was inscrutable. “Is it your master’s wrath I risk? Or is it yours,_ Snivellus _?”_

_Snape’s eyes went black with anger. “Stop calling me by that detestable moniker, or I’ll give you a taste of the Dark Lord’s wrath right here and now.” He spoke quietly, his voice as cold and deadly as a Slytherin snake. “The Cruciatus curse doesn’t mark the body, and it does not kill, but the pain can break even the strongest of minds like a twig.”_

_“Don’t be a didactic git, Snape.” Far from being impressed, Black was watching him with a bored expression. “We both learned that at Hogwarts. While I’m sure you’d have more direct experience, the information isn’t new.”_

_He wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol getting to the other man’s head, or if he actually possessed a death wish. Then again, knowing Black, he could simply be indulging in a show of bravado. “You should consider why I wouldn’t kill you. I could do so with hardly more than a thought.”_

_“Perhaps.” Black grinned smugly as he took a step forward. “Perhaps not.” He’d done something to break Snape’s spell without him even noticing. “I’ve done some learning since school, too.” He cast Expelliarmus and caught Snape’s wand in his hand before he could react. “Still, I like these odds better.”_

_Snape backed away, although he knew distance wouldn’t do any good against magic. “Then stun me and get it done with. You’d have gotten what you came for.”_

_“You_ are _a hypocrite. You talk about your powers, you flaunt your allegiance, but you want me to take you back with me. You want to be forced into giving up your secrets so it’s not your fault. And you know they’ll throw your worthless carcass into Azkaban prison or worse when they’re done with you.” Black advanced on Snape with the wands, forced him back towards the bed. “Better, I suppose, to be executed by gods for your sins than to be put down by Satan for trying to repent of them.”_

_It was then that Snape started to feel real fear. He’d been confronted by his choices before, but never in such an obvious and immediate way. He didn’t fear Black, but he did fear the Dementors of Azkaban. His situation wasn’t an intellectual exercise, but reality. It was his life as he’d never imagined it turning out. He could be killed by Voldemort, or lose his mind to the dementor’s kiss. It would make no difference in the end. Not to him.  
_

He isn’t sure why Black let him go. In later years, he’d thought it was because Black had been serving the Dark Lord all along, and hadn’t wanted to turn a source of information over to Dumbledore. But that had turned out not to be true. Perhaps Black had thought Snape would turn on his own, but such faith would have been uncharacteristic. Since he never managed to ask when Black was alive, he is stuck wondering.

Snape is used to waking up alone. He’s done it every single day of his life. That one morning, however, it had been not just a surprise but a shock. At first, he hadn’t been sure he hadn’t imagined it all. But he’d been lying face down on the bed, naked, the sheet tangled around his legs. A silver hip flask had been sitting on the night table. When he saw that, he’d known. Sirius Black had always taken what he wanted, consequences be damned. Before that night, Snape wouldn’t have thought that included him.

The kiss had never seemed like more than a schoolboy indiscretion. An awakening of sorts for Snape, but surely nothing for Black, who could have had anyone he wanted. Anyone, that is, except James Potter.

_  
“I never thanked you,” Sirius growled out as he concentrated on Snape’s jaw. Whatever he was doing with his lips and tongue felt wonderful._

_“How’s that?” Snape’s voice was thick and distracted as he negotiated the buttons on Black’s shirt. His fingers, usually nimble, were made clumsy with unaccustomed passion._

_Black chuckled as he pulled back to undo his own buttons. “For making me realize about James. If I’d ever had him, it would have ruined our friendship.” Finished with his shirt, Black went back to Snape’s lips, taking them with an arrogant abandon, as if he weren’t enjoying the body of a servant of evil. “Not that you’d care,” he muttered as an afterthought.  
_

Not that he’d cared. At that moment, Snape hadn’t cared about much of anything. Not when Sirius Black was tugging on his belt. He hadn’t cared why it was happening, only that it was. He hadn’t cared that Black had touched him not like a lover but like a slave, a possession. It is his perpetual weakness that he still cannot bring himself to care, on the rare occasions he allows himself to remember. It is shaming that he would rather have been Black’s slave than not have had him at all.

He has never known why Black came to his room that night. Perhaps it had been because of his brother’s recent death that he’d been drunk in Knockturn Alley. Perhaps someone in the pub had mentioned Snape had taken a room for the night. It is no longer possible to ask. He wonders if that’s why he’s waited so long to voice the questions whose answers he would rather not know.

Black is dead now, and can offer no reason or wisdom. He cannot taunt or insult or make snide remarks. Most of all, he cannot confirm any of the fears Snape guards close to his heart. He is almost glad, because now there is no temptation to seek the truth. The truth has been buried. It lies in the empty grave that does not hold Sirius Black’s body, because no grave will ever have that privilege. No prison will ever again hold Sirius captive. Snape is almost glad.

_  
Snape threw his head back into the pillow as Black ground his hips into him. He could barely understand the sensations coursing through him, having never felt them before._

_“Now, you…” Black murmured while working on the long row of buttons down Snape’s shirt. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to have you.”_

_“Arrogance, Black,” Snape muttered to himself in a disapproving tone. The other man’s momentary pause gave him the opportunity to switch their positions, so he was on top. “As I recall, you were quite… confused… about certain proclivities at school.”_

_Black settled back against the lumpy mattress comfortably. “That was before I experimented on the Quidditch team. All four, actually.” He gave Snape a cocky smirk. “Why did you think Gryffindor did so well that year?”_

_There was no reason Snape should find that arousing, but he could feel the ache of need in his body become even more acute. “I never had the knack for flying,” he observed honestly, if a bit bitterly._

_The remark seemed to have amused Sirius in some way, because he laughed as he flipped Snape onto his back again. “I’ve outgrown the fascination,” he uttered simply before nipping the other man’s jaw, then sliding down his body to find another use for his mouth.  
_

If Black had noticed his inexperience, he hadn’t said anything. Snape had never expected that small mercy. In bed, Sirius had been clearly dominant, demanding and harsh, but he had not left his conquest wanting. Looking back, Snape can see how he’d guided without appearing to, how he’d accepted the lack of finesse with only a slight and subtle mockery.

Black had known. There is no way Black could not have known. But none of his insults, none of his jeers, had taken advantage of that fact. Perhaps he simply hadn’t considered it important. Perhaps he’d grown accustomed to bedding virgins, both male and female. There is only one person left who would know anything of Sirius Black’s sexual ethos. Remus Lupin, who he would no more approach on the subject than Albus Dumbledore. Sometimes Snape wonders about him. There are occasions, during meetings of the Order, that he finds Lupin staring at him, a sad and speculative look in his dreamy eyes. If anyone knows, it is Remus Lupin, and Snape dreads the day the werewolf can keep his knowledge to himself no longer.

Lupin has always been reserved in a way that Potter and Black were not. Had the three not been friends, Snape would have no reason to dislike him now. As it is, he finds it hard to relate to the grief of a man who has lost all three of his best friends. He finds it hard to bear the burden of being the last remaining link to a past he would rather forget. He finds it hard, when Remus gives him that lethargic, hopeful half-smile, not to wonder.

Black is the only man… the only person… he’s let touch him in that way. He has never felt much need for sexual encounters, never really understood the power they hold over some. He has considered himself above such things. Perhaps, as Black had said, he is a hypocrite. He finds himself wondering if it would ever have happened again, had Black survived. He finds it absurd that he dwells on the memory like a love sick teenager clinging to an impossible dream. He tells himself he remains untouched because he prefers it that way, not because he is waiting for a man he can never have and will accept no substitutes. 

_  
Black lay back in the bed, the expression on his face smug and superior. Snape watched him out of the corner of his eye as he worked on the buttons that hadn’t yet been undone. His hands shook, just slightly. Black didn’t interfere this time, but watched silently._

_“Why me?” Snape asked as he shed his shirt, the final garment standing in the way of nakedness. He had an urge to run his hands down Black’s chest, to feel the hard muscles and to possess that statuesque body, but he resisted._

_“Why not?” Black answered philosophically, shrugging. He was reaching out to Snape when he saw it. The Dark Mark, which never completely faded from the flesh. Tonight, it stood out harshly against Snape’s pallid skin. Black grabbed his wrist, examining the Mark. He stared as if he hadn’t really expected to see it._

_Snape felt something close to shame as he pulled his arm out of Black’s grip. “Why me?” he repeated, steeling himself against the answer._

_Black moved restively, then shrugged again, pulling Snape back down so he was lying on his stomach on the bed. “Because I can.” He ran his fingers over the Mark as he forced Snape’s arms above his head, holding them there. He straddled Snape, spoke roughly into his ear. “Because you’re a loathsome creature who doesn’t deserve it. Because…”_

_Snape moved under the other man, testing his new position. He knew there would be no backing down now. Sirius Black would take him, and afterwards, Snape would be entirely at his mercy. It was almost a relief on both accounts._

_“Don’t keep us in suspense, Black,” he managed. He only hoped it wouldn’t hurt too much. It couldn’t hurt more than the mind-shattering pain of_ Crucio _he assured himself. He could feel Black breathing on top of him, could feel his arousal. He tensed in anticipation._

_Black exhaled suddenly, as if he had come to some sort of conclusion or realization. He leaned in, pushed Snape’s hair back from his neck, and bit down lightly on the corded muscle. “Relax,” he murmured as he concentrated on the spot he’d uncovered. He didn’t answer the question until Snape yielded beneath him. “Because I couldn’t have you. Because nobody could have Severus Snape.”_

_“Nobody wanted me,” Snape responded, bitterness creeping into his voice again.  
_

As far as he knows, it had been the truth. But then, he hadn’t wanted anyone else, either, so he hadn’t gone looking. Snape does not know if he and Black were more honest that night than any other, or if they had told more lies. Snape had risen from the bed they’d shared full of rage and disgust. The hatred had been not for Black, but for himself. The thought of having to return to his life, to serve Voldemort, had had him running to the bathroom to lose the previous night’s dinner. The face he’d seen in the mirror had been his own, but he hadn’t been able to bear looking at it.

That morning, he’d brewed the potion, seeing it as his only alternative once Black had failed to turn him in. He’d sat over it for hours, ignoring the prickling sensation in his arm. Just when he would finally have gathered the courage to drink, the Mark had burned black. And Snape had found real courage. He’d decided he would Apparate to the Dark Lord. He would gather the information he could and he would defect. He’d known it might not have saved his life, but it would have saved his soul either way. It ended up doing both.

Black had not been so lucky. Snape remembers the time after Voldemort’s fall. While he had become a respected Hogwarts professor on Dumbledore’s invitation, Black had been slowly going mad in Azkaban. A traitor’s fate. Snape had felt no remorse; he expects Black would not have, had he gotten what he deserved. Now, it is impossible to separate the sting of betrayal from the schoolboy hatred. It is impossible to calculate what might have been.

_  
Snape cried out as he was penetrated, dug his fingers into the sheets. It hurt. God, it hurt, but it felt so good. He wanted it to stop, but he wanted it to go on forever. He could die like this, Sirius Black buried inside him, fucking him._

_“Tight ass,” Black grunted, the fingers of his left hand digging into Snape’s hip, while the right worked his cock._

_Snape squeezed his muscles around Black, causing him to emit a long, low groan. “I’ve heard that from you before.”_

_Black made his thrusts more powerful, moved his hand at a more demanding pace. “Never fucked you into a mattress before.”_

_And then they were silent, except for the occasional grunt or moan, too wrapped up in the pleasure to think. Snape came first, panting and shuddering. He collapsed into the wet spot he’d made while Black drove into him a couple more times, then exploded with a cry._

_They lay together, spent, neither attempting to move. Eventually, Snape drifted off to sleep, Black still inside him.  
_

Snape is glad the students have gone home for the summer. He is free to prowl the halls of the castle without receiving suspicious looks, free to indulge in his dark moods without having to restrain himself to teach his classes. He is free to remember, though he does not want to.

As it nears the time of the full moon, he finds himself thinking of the potion he’ll brew for Lupin, who will be spending that week at the castle. He cannot second guess Dumbledore, but the thought makes him uncomfortable. The wolf is yet another prison that is fashioned for the righteous, and Snape does not like feeling pity. He doesn’t like feeling tempted, either.

He stays late in the Great Hall after meals, lingers over conversation with Dumbledore who, he is sure, can tell he is lonely. He is once more aware that he does not have, nor has he ever had, friends. He has only allies and enemies, and that has always been enough. And he has had Dumbledore to fill in the spaces when it has not. These days he feels the need for more. When Lupin looks at him, he wishes… But no. He does not even like the man.

Some days, he sits out under the trees by the lake and thinks of the past. He knows he’s a strange sight, dressed in confining layers of black, his pallor pronounced under the sun. He reads to pass the time because he has no one to talk to. If someone were to sit beside him, he would be shocked speechless. He plans his lessons for the coming year, wonders if he will once again be forced to teach Harry Potter. The boy is so like his father — for that, Snape can never forgive him. And he will never forgive himself.

One of the most valuable pieces of information he’d managed to uncover during his time as a spy all those years ago had concerned the Potters. It was he that had discovered there was a traitor in their midst, but he could not determine who. For years, he had cursed himself for never truly suspecting Sirius Black. His world had shifted when he had learned he’d been right not to. Either way, the damage had been done. The Potters dead, their son orphaned, and Snape dangerously close to brewing the death potion once again. Dumbledore’s offer of a position at the school convinced him to put away the ingredients, but he has never gotten rid of them.

He wonders who Dumbledore will hire for the Dark Arts position this year. He knows it will not be him, that it will never be him. He has almost resigned himself to that fact. His knowledge of potions is surpassed by few and dark magic is too dangerous for him to dabble in often. He has too much practice using it and not enough combating it for Dumbledore’s liking. It does no good for Snape to point out that without continuity, the students learn nothing, that he is willing to take the post when few are, or that his loyalty is known better than that of most. Dumbledore only gives him a frustratingly calm smile and asks, “Then Severus, who shall I find to replace you?”

Remus Lupin is the only remotely good teacher they’d had these past few years, Snape admits grudgingly. He conveniently forgets the role he played in revealing the man’s status as a werewolf. But perhaps parents will care less about that detail now that the Dark Lord has revealed himself and their children need to be taught the subject by somebody competent.

Snape can almost see Lupin sitting beside him in the sun, a book open on his lap and a cup of tea at his side. They can be misfits together, the dungeon master and the sickly scholar, both pale and wan and weary of the world. And perhaps — perhaps it would stave off some of the emptiness for both of them.

In his heart, Snape knows he has not amounted to much. He struggles daily to find satisfaction in what he does have. He is trying to learn that there are many kinds of power a person can possess. It is a hard lesson, just as the death of Sirius Black has been a hard loss. Both have been harder than he’d ever imagined.


End file.
